


Trust

by hereliesnils



Category: Saw (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort but make it fucked up, M/M, Not another un-squish Strahm AU, Sex, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24337648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereliesnils/pseuds/hereliesnils
Summary: AU in which Hoffman is a slightly better person and Strahm is worse. This makes them a perfect match.
Relationships: Mark Hoffman/Peter Strahm
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Trust

It had started at some desperate hour, under dim lights and too much pressure. They argued, tussled, and Hoffman slammed him into the side of a filing cabinet and pinned his wrists by his head. Strahm raised his chin to headbutt him, but the gleam in Hoffman's eyes caught him off guard, and he let his head loll back to expose his throat. Hoffman's gaze flicked from his eyes to that pale expanse of skin, and he set upon him, kissing and sucking his way up his neck and along his jaw to his mouth. Strahm felt him slide his tongue past his lips, and in return he shifted his hips to grind against Hoffman's thigh.

“Not here,” Hoffman said.

“My place?” Strahm said. 

They left a trail of clothes across the floor and, against his better judgement, he let Hoffman tip him back onto his bed.

Hoffman reached out to run one hand down the length of his bare thigh.

“It's not my prom night,” Strahm goaded. 

In response, Hoffman shoved his knees apart. Strahm took a sharp intake of breath.

“There's lube in the nightstand if you know what to do with it,” he said. 

Hoffman smirked.

He made Strahm sigh long and hard with the slick twist of his fingers. Just as Strahm started to roll his hips back to meet them, Hoffman eased them free and slid his hands up to cup his hips. Strahm looked up, his eyes wide, and Hoffman sunk inside him, staring down with an intensity like no other. Strahm bit back a whimper. It kept coming, and Hoffman groaned low and guttural as he pushed deeper.

Strahm threw his head back and let the pleasure pour out, loud and pleading. 

“You moan like a whore,” Hoffman said.

Strahm tilted his head to lock eyes with him. 

“Only for you, baby,” he said. 

Strahm could have kept up the fight, but the look on Hoffman's face told him that he had made the right decision. It felt good to shock him. 

“Come on, give it to me,” Strahm said. His voice rumbled deep in his throat. 

Hoffman lifted his hips in a bruising grip and fucked him hard and fast. Strahm gasped and reached up to grip the headboard, inviting Hoffman to lurch forward and bite the muscles straining below his collarbone. Strahm arched and writhed and panted. He wasn't sure how much more he could take, but he wanted so badly to come like this. One hand snapped free and curled around the back of Hoffman's neck to pull him into a kiss. Hoffman broke away to lick his throat, his tongue lingering on the scar, and that was the tipping point. 

“Oh fuck!” Strahm cried. His nails dug into Hoffman's neck and the hand clutching the headboard turned bone white. It racked his whole body, leaving him keening and shaking as Hoffman fucked him through it. Hoffman was snarling words Strahm couldn't make out through the pulse of blood in his ears, and then he was quiet, biting down on his shoulder. 

The room swam. Strahm felt the warmth of Hoffman's skin slide away and his weight shift from the bed. He let out a groan and rolled onto his side. His hips ached and the bites on his chest and shoulder throbbed, but more than anything he felt the loss of the body above him. He watched Hoffman cross the room and stoop to pick up his shirt. 

“Aren't you gonna stay?” Strahm said. 

“Why?”

“So you can fuck me again in the morning.”

Hoffman tilted his head to one side. It wasn't clear if he was considering it or judging him. Maybe both. It didn't matter, because he dropped his shirt to the floor and lowered himself back onto the bed. 

Strahm was true to his word. Not long after waking, he found himself on his stomach with Hoffman's hands splayed either side of his head. It was slower than the night before, but if anything the push and drag was more intense. With daylight creeping around the blinds, his moans felt too loud and too obscene, and he reached for Hoffman's hand to take two thick fingers into his mouth. 

Hoffman left him sprawled on the bed, chest heaving, ruined in more ways than one. 

****

They never fucked in the office. Strahm wondered why that of all things was a step too far. It was always at his place, last thing at night and first thing in the morning, then away to dance around what they knew about each other all day, with Strahm's denial steadily slipping into something else entirely. 

****

Strahm hammered against the glass with the heels of his hands. 

“Open it, open it, open it,” he kept saying, the words running into one. He could only hope it was enough, that his tone and expression said _I'll do anything, I'll never tell, I'm all yours_. He didn't want to say it out loud, lest it was futile and his last moments were being recorded, making those words his epitaph. 

He let his forehead drop to the face of the coffin and dragged his palms against the glass. The room shuddered with a groan of metal against concrete. His breath hitched. 

“Please, baby, please,” he said it close to the glass, praying it would muffle it to any listening ears. 

The lock clicked.

Strahm lifted his head, leaving a patch of sweat on the glass. Hoffman slammed his fist against the glass near his face. _Move_. 

Strahm flung himself back and watched Hoffman shove the door up and away from his body with one hand. He scrambled forward and fell into the coffin, forcing a grunt from Hoffman as his body weight pressed him into the broken glass. His hands scrabbled in the shards either side of Hoffman's body. The pain was slow to set in, but when it came, it screamed hot and wet across his palms and fingers. He felt a heavy arm wrap around his back and the lid slammed shut. 

It was a tight fit. He writhed against Hoffman, earning another grunt and a kick to his ankles. 

“Keep still.”

The coffin lowered into the floor and the walls thundered above them. He thought of what the fuck he would have done if he was still up there, and what the fuck he was going to do now. His bloody hands came up to grasp fistfuls of Hoffman's jacket and he nestled his cheek against the sliver of sweat-soaked shirt between the lapels. Hoffman's heart was beating fast, but not as fast as his. 

“How long?” Strahm said. 

“A few minutes,” Hoffman said.

Only a few minutes to end his life and reputation in a squall of blood and agony. He closed his eyes and shivered. A cruel thought crept into his mind; that the mechanism would fail and leave them trapped under the floor, but if he had to die that day, suffocating was better than the alternative. 

He stayed as still as he could, and listened to his own ragged breathing and the thud of Hoffman's heart. The searing pain from the slashes in his skin seemed to swell as warmth began to trickle down the inside of his sleeves. The coffin smelled like blood and metal and Hoffman. Strahm tried to count to keep track of the minutes, but he lost his place with every scrape and creak from above. 

The coffin rattled and Strahm twisted his neck to watch the floor part. Hoffman released the lock. 

Strahm crumpled to the ground and let out a sound he wasn't proud of. It was wavering and high, halfway between a cry and a scream. It wasn't just the pain, god knows he'd suffered worse, nor was it the thought of the brutal end he had escaped, but the knowledge that his life as he knew it was over. 

He reached up to Hoffman with trembling, lacerated hands. He was losing enough blood to be utterly dependent on him, and it felt intoxicating. Hoffman bent to lift him with one arm curled under his knees and the other around his shoulders. 

“I'm gonna fix you up,” he said. 

Strahm nodded and clutched his hands to his chest in an attempt to stem the flow. They passed through dim corridors and into another room, where Hoffman lowered him into a chair. Strahm waited for the drag of cold metal and rust against his cheeks, but it never came. 

Hoffman pushed a rag between Strahm's teeth, and cleaned and stitched while he hissed and howled into the fabric. He opened his mouth and let the rag fall into his lap once Hoffman started to bandage his hands into two useless white boxing gloves.

“What about you?” Strahm said, his voice thick with saliva. 

“I'm fine,” Hoffman said, “I didn't shove my fists in the glass.”

“I fell!”

Hoffman smirked and kept bandaging. It occurred to Strahm that he didn't know where his gun was. He leant forward and placed a tentative kiss at the curled corner of Hoffman's mouth. He tried to tell himself it was self-preservation, but when Hoffman turned his head and parted his lips it was all over. 

“What have you done to me?” Strahm said. 

“Tell me you don't like it,” Hoffman said. 

Strahm didn't say a word.


End file.
